


Scorch

by leiascully



Category: Fallen London|Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, Poetry, Silence Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Quiet Deviless is extremely quiet on most occasions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scorch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeesuperhero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/gifts).



The Quiet Deviless is extremely quiet on most occasions. Her rooms are lushly carpeted and the hinges of the door to her boudoir are exquisitely well-oiled. The windows are hung with heavy crimson drapes that muffle all of the noise of the street. When she speaks, her voice is so soft that you have to lean in close to catch her words, until her lips nearly brush your ear. Even your reflection in the mirror seems hushed, softened by the warmth of the lamplight. It's as if the walls swallow every sound.

Almost every sound. 

When you undress her, the silk of her gown rustles faintly. She makes a very small sound deep in her throat. It sends fire through your veins, as if Mister Wines has tempted you with a taste of one of its experimental cordials. Even the nearly-not-a-sound of the Quiet Deviless' nails as she pushes your hair out of your face makes you feel as if flames are licking along your throat as the heat rises into your cheeks. 

The Quiet Deviless reclines on the bed, satin and lace whispering against her skin. The duvet crinkles under her weight. She looks at you with luminous eyes. She has looked at you that way before, many times. You take out the little book of your poetry. The paper crackles as you open the book, sliding your fingers over the soft leather of the cover with a barely audible smudge. You clear your throat, the rasp of it clear and nearly jarring, which makes you blush again. The Quiet Deviless just waits, breathing softly in and out so that the ivory ribs of her corset creak. Her eyes gleam golden in the lamplight and she raises her eyebrows ever so slightly. 

You read. Nothing has ever made you feel so much like an amateur and so much like an artist as the Quiet Deviless' rapt attention. Her forehead creases slightly as you stumble over a word, but soon enough you've found the rhythm and her face smooths out again. Each line drops into the silence like a stone into the fountain in the Forgotten Quarter, the one that never ripples. Your poetry has never seemed so well-crafted or so connected to the deeper truths of the universe. The song of the barely-remembered stars sings in your verses. Your poetry sounds like something Mister Pages would ban - the thought of the moon is too much for those accustomed to moonish light, and the Masters are notoriously sensitive to the mention of caresses and of breathy, heated sweet nothings spoken in delirious moments of consummation. No delirium is permitted that is not caused by their creations, but you have managed, nearly, to capture a few forbidden moments with the hurried scratchings of pen on paper. You are nearly lost in the sound of your words when she sighs sweetly. Immediately you are aflame again, drawn out of the higher plane of art and into the quiet room. You look up at her, your mouth so dry that your throat makes an audible sound when you swallow.

The Quiet Deviless traces the embroidered swirls on her duvet with one fingernail, scratching lightly. You can barely hear it, but in the hush of the room, it's as if she's scraping the edges of her nails up the bones of your spine. Your skin puckers into gooseflesh so suddenly you swear you can hear the tensing of the tiny muscles and the susurration of the fine hairs, a sound like wind rustling through tall grass, something you'd nearly forgotten. She meets your gaze with her hot golden stare. The lamps crackle quietly in their globes, the light they cast a shadow of the light in her eyes. The little book slips from your fingers and lands on the carpet with a sound no louder than the pat of a graceful slippered foot on a stair. The Quiet Deviless yawns, sharp white teeth glinting behind elegant fingers, and inclines her head. You stand up from your chair, half-hypnotized. The wood squeaks at the relief of your weight, but your booted feet make no sound as you cross the room.

The Quiet Deviless sits up with another faint creak of ivory. The satin of her duvet rumples as she moves. She beckons you near with one crooked finger. You step closer. The leather of your boots scrunches as you kneel in front of her. She traces the line of your eyebrow and your cheekbone, smiling faintly. Her chin lifts and you rise. Silent desperation tenses your muscles; you long for any sound from her. She tilts her head again and you take one more step, closing the gap between you. 

The room is so nearly silent that the hitch of your breath is jarring. You lean toward her, your yearning so strong you think it must be audible somehow. She reaches out and you catch her hands, running your thumbs over her smooth warm knuckles. Your blood simmers until you're certain that she will hear the soft bubbling. She smiles again and gently frees her hands from yours, reaching for your lapels. Her fingertips rasp down the rougher fabric of your clothing and click on the buttons of your waistcoat as she undoes the fastenings of your outerwear. It feels as if she is likewise undoing the fastenings of your soul - you soar on the heated updraft of your passion as each button slips from its hole with a muted pop. She makes quick work of divesting you of waistcoat, blouse, boots, and trousers. Each item of clothing crumples to the floor. The final sound is the snap of your garters as she rolls your stockings down.

In your chemise, you stand before her. You're shivering, but not from the cold. It's never cold in her rooms. She reaches out and lays a hand over your hip; faint brown scorch marks appear on the fine soft linen and you can almost hear the crackle of the fibers shrinking. The Quiet Deviless smiles and turns, presenting you with the firm lines of her shoulders and back. She reaches casually to lift the hair from her neck, looking at you with a question in her golden eyes. You reach for the laces of her corset, freeing her slowly from the silk and ivory cage; the stays creak again as she takes deeper breaths. She lifts her arms and her hair tumbles free. You carefully work the corset up and over her head. It is silent now, no longer animated by her presence, the live pressure of her respiration. 

Now you are both in your chemises: yours linen, hers silk. As she draws you closer, the fabrics rustle over each other. You brace yourself on your hands on the bed as her lips meet yours. Air shushes from the satin duvet, down cracking under your palms. You hear the sounds as vibrations through your skin and bones; your senses are all wrapped up in her. You hear your own pulse thudding in your ears. You imagine the almost imperceptible sizzle of her skin against yours. You hear the quickening intake of her breath and the weight of her hair falling against the duvet as she leans back. The duvet crackles again as you bring your knee up onto the bed. You're kneeling over her now, doing your best to hold yourself up with arms that tremble. The soft urgent smacking of kisses is the only accompaniment to your passion, punctuated by the percussion of your pounding heart.

She draws you down and down until the bed creaks and the duvet sighs. Her fingers are steady and almost incandescently hot as she unties the strings of your chemise. Your own fingers fumble, but eventually you manage to undo the knots. The silk slithers across the satin of the duvet as you tug. The Quiet Deviless wriggles impatiently until the little heap of her silk and your linen tumbles to the floor. Now there is only your skin and her skin, the crackle of the lamps and the crackle of down. She kisses you again and again until you are dizzy with the soft wet smacking of lips and the click of teeth as passion overtakes sense. The hush of her breath fills you up.

Inside you a fire burns, riotous but silent, crimson and golden flames that should roar but make no sound. Each touch of her hands raises the inferno to nearly unbearable heights. Your skin reddens under her caresses, but you don't care. You have been embers smoldering and it took her breath to ignite you. You welcome the conflagration. Your hands find her breasts, smooth and hot and heavy in your palms. She arches soundlessly into your touch. Your slightly rough palms scrape lightly against her perfectly smooth skin as you stroke her breasts, grazing her rosy nipples with the pads of your thumbs. She writhes a little but makes no murmur. Her golden eyes encourage you on. 

You push yourself up on one elbow, her breast still resting in your hand. Your thumb moves over the firm curve of it as your other hand slides down her body. Her skin is almost searingly hot now. A breath of sulfur and roses rises from her. You breathe deep, drinking in all of her that you can stand. She rolls quietly onto her back. You stroke the soft rise and fall of her stomach, the tangle of hot golden curls, the velvety skin at the crease of her thigh. Your fingers tease her folds, easing between them. She is wet, soakingly wet, the moisture of her so hot that your fingers sting and throb, but you push in further. You can't get enough of her. Her clitoris is like an ember, scorching your skin until you would swear you will come away with blisters. You would wear them like the finest jewels if you did, ornaments more precious than anything belonging to Mister Stones.

You lean down to kiss her mouth as your fingers explore her cunt, both equally wet and hot and yielding under your touch. She nips at you, her teeth sharp against your lips, her tongue insistent. You let your thumb set up a rhythm of tiny circles against her clitoris as your fingers crook inside her. She strains toward you and pulls you down hard against her. Your hand is trapped between your bodies but you carry on, circling and circling with your thumb as your fingers thrust into the shocking heat of her. She trembles and tenses, rising under you. You thrust; you kiss; you burn against her, moaning at the sheer delight of touching her as she muffles your cries with her lips. 

She gasps just once, a sweet perfect sound of immense satisfaction. Her body pulls tight as a violin string, nearly tumbling you off her. You had not realized the extent of her strength. It is a thought both terrifying and delicious, like the heat of her and the silence of her. She relaxes after a moment, pliable now, and you roll onto your side again. She smiles up at you with dreamy golden eyes. Her teeth are very white against her red lips. She says nothing, but you hear the rush of her breath. Her skin is dewed with drops of sweat. 

You gaze at her, begging silently for her touch, and she seems to understand. Her nails skim over your collarbone, your ribs, the curve of your hip. You cannot help moaning very quietly. She presses her mouth to yours, swallowing the sound as her fingers slide between your legs. 

Her touch is the lighted brand and you are kindling. The noiseless fire inside you leaps up, the flames so high and so real that it seems you can see them, crimson and gold limning the edges of your vision. Her hands are hot and her nails are sharp, but you welcome the scorch of her caresses. You sprawl on the bed and it groans under you. You pant, each puff of air more desperate than the last. You strain toward her until your skin slaps gently against hers every time she strokes you. She slides her knee between your legs and you nearly whimper at the heat of her touch, but you can't help pushing toward her, closer and closer, until the friction nearly equals the scorch of her. You spread your legs, inviting her in, and she pushes her fingers inside you. She leans against you and you welcome her weight. 

The sweltering damp of her skin blazes against yours, nearly as good as a caress. Your nipples tingle on the edge of aching but you never want her to stop. You could burn like this forever, a conflagration devoutly to be wished. The fire of passion rushes through you until you are nothing more than flame, leaping up and up and up to light the whole room, the whole city, reminding the Neath what it meant to witness the glory of the rising sun. You shiver under her touch, shaking until you fear your bones will come loose from their moorings. Her fingers tease and coax you until the pleasure is unbearable: you cry out, your voice ringing loudly in her quiet rooms. Not even her mouth against yours can stop the reverberation of it. The glass globes of the lamps chime in response. The bed creaks and you think the windows rattle. 

The Quiet Deviless cups her hand over your mouth. You lick your lips and taste yourself on her fingers. Your breath comes harsh and noisily in the hollow of her palm. After a few moments you collect yourself. You blink at her deliberately to indicate you will make no more uncouth noise. She removes her hand, placing it back on your breast, and smiles sweetly. You smile back at her, still half-breathless, still sparking at each touch. She caresses your skin absently, looking elsewhere. You follow her gaze. Her eyes rest on the little book of your poetry, lying neglected on the floor. She looks again at you, the question in her eyes half command, and you push yourself reluctantly away from her touch. The duvet rumples and crackles as you move. 

You stand on trembling legs, bare feet silent on the carpet. The Quiet Deviless reclines once again on her pillows. Her skin glows in the lamplight. You take a few tentative steps and pick up the book, smoothing the crumpled pages. You sit down in the armchair. The upholstery may be ruined; your skin is damp and your cunt is more than damp. You shift, trying to spare the fabric, but you are wet all over with no remedy in sight. The Quiet Deviless merely stares expectantly. You turn the page and read. The words drop again into the velvet hush of the air like diamonds. The Quiet Deviless smiles, listening raptly. You tell her how the moonish light and the glow of the lamps are replaced by the spangled expanse of the firmament. The Quiet Deviless licks her lips and sighs. You burn.


End file.
